Mistakes
by the Raven of Roses
Summary: Life has a way of kicking you in the head and then laughing at you. This is what happens when simple mistakes are made...


1-18-06

It should have been an easy kill. The asshole looked so thin, it was surprising he was still alive. You'd think someone like that wouldn't be able to fight back.

Of course, it's usually the ones you're not expecting who put up the most fight…

_Darkness. Pounding feet. He's running away. _

A knife sliced through the sound of night traffic, ending in a grunt of pain. The target fell, cursing.

Then he got back up. And he had a knife. Shit.

The next moment, something shattered, and the attacker fell to the ground, quietly bleeding.

X

_Shit. I fucked up._

Johnny sat up and immediately wished he hadn't. Several somethings cracked and forced him back down. He cursed and clutched at his ribs. Definitely at least a few broken. Not good.

A moment later, Johnny leapt out of the bed and swore loudly.

Several nurses rushed into the hospital room, along with someone who looked like a doctor. They wrestled him back into the bed and gave him an injection of something that was probably supposed to make him sleep.

It didn't work.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snarled, wrenching the needle out of his arm.

"Just calm down, sir," murmured one of the nurses, retrieving the syringe. "You need to rest."

"You got beat up pretty bad," explained the doctor. "We're going to take you in for X-rays once the painkillers kick in."

"I'm leaving now."

Johnny attempted to get up. Aside from the four pairs of hands that grasped his arms, he suddenly found his legs giving out. He decided it would be in his best interest to at least allow himself a few hours' rest.

The nurse looked pleased. Well, at the very least, the grin on her face hinted at self-satisfaction. Johnny quickly searched for a weapon. Nothing. They must have taken them away along with—

"Where the hell are my clothes?"

"Well, they were covered with an awful lot of blood," started who looked to be the head nurse. "But hospital gowns are quite comfortable—"

"Fermez la bouche, s'il vous plait."

Johnny froze. Since when did he use French in everyday conversation? Maybe he'd imagined it. No, the nurses and the doctor all kept staring at him.

One of them, the woman who'd been trying to talk to him, finally spoke.

"Did you just tell me to—to shut up?" she asked, dumbstruck.

"Get the hell away from me," came the harsh growl of a reply.

"Nurse, get another injection ready," commanded the doctor.

Johnny grabbed for the syringe, but the nurse had obviously had some experience with violent patients. She darted out of the way so skillfully that Johnny would have fallen out of the bed had three people not been ready to restrain him. And three seconds later, Johnny was forced to bear another injection.

Finally, he succumbed to sleep.

X

Johnny rocketed back to consciousness at the sound of a horrifyingly primal scream. Seconds later, a burning sensation in his throat made him realize that it had been he who screamed. Short, ragged gasps of air escaped his lips, and he wiped away the sheen of sweat that ran into his eyes. Hospital sheets met the touch of his arm, and everything came flooding back.

A nurse opened the door, looking frantic.

"Are you alright?" she asked breathlessly.

Johnny drew in a long, shaky breath.

"I'm fine. When can I get out of here?"

"I'm not sure. Your clipboard says you still have to go in for X-rays." She gave him a sideways glance. "Do you think you're up for it now?"

"If it'll get me out faster, I'll go in for the fucking X-rays," sighed Johnny, rubbing at his temples.

Maybe he could fry a nurse's brain with the radiation or something. Or beat them with a lead apron. Whatever looked to be the easiest.

"Sir, I'd appreciate it if you would refrain from using such language around the hospital," chastised the nurse, cementing her in Johnny's mind forever as his next target.

"I'd appreciate it if someone would give me my clothes back," snapped Johnny.

"I don't think you'd want to wear—"

"If they haven't been thrown out, I'd like them back." Johnny could hear his teeth grating. "I have a horrible migraine from whatever the hell it was one of you shot into my arm, and I suggest you do what I tell you."

Exactly one minute later, Johnny limped along behind the nurse, clad once more in his own bloodied, tattered clothes. He mentally counted up the stares and other reactions he got; he was at twelve double-takes and two collisions of gawkers by the time the nurse pointed him into the little X-ray room.

"Just sit still while we photograph those arms, sir," commanded the nurse as Johnny's hand twitched on its own.

Countless X-rays later and fast approaching the end of Johnny's patience, the nurse finally scampered off to develop the pictures, so to speak. She didn't bother to tell him to go back to the hospital room, so Johnny decided he would just wander aimlessly for awhile.

He actually felt a bit guilty for making the child patients cry when he walked by. Poor kids. They weren't old enough to be corrupted, and anyway, they all looked pretty miserable to begin with.

Finally, the nurse tracked him down and made him follow her to a small room in the back of the hospital. She and the doctor tacked up a series of X-ray pictures on a backlit screen, making small noises of surprise every now and then.

"As you can see here, sir—" began the doctor.

"My name is Johnny."

"Alright. As you can see, Johnny, these X-rays show several broken ribs, as well as a plethora of old breaks in various limbs. Did you get into a bad accident a few years back?"

"No." Johnny's eyes narrowed. "I'm just kind of accident-prone."

"It looks like you set those bones yourself," commented the nurse, pointing at the traces of multiple breaks in the right arm. "See how the bones don't look quite right? You really should have come to the hospital to get those sorted out."

"Just tell me if I need any bones set."

"Er, fine." The nurse thumbed through several other photos. "I'd recommend letting us take a look at the—"

"Do I need the bones set or not?"

"Well, it isn't a matter of life or death, but—"

"Fine. I'll be leaving now."

Johnny got up to leave, but the doctor stopped him.

"We'll need to see some form of identification, sir," stated the doctor calmly. "You didn't even have a driver's license on you. We couldn't identify you or find anything that would tell us if you're even a citizen of the country."

"I'd appreciate it if you got your filthy hands off of me," snarled Johnny, glaring at the man's hand on his wrist.

"Is there someone you can call who could give us a positive identification?" asked the nurse, being careful to stand out of reach.

"I'd like to leave now." Johnny's hands trembled, itching to find a weapon. "I suggest you let go of me if you wish to keep that hand."

"Are you threatening me, sir?"

"I told you, my name is JOHNNY."

The nurse screamed. The doctor fell to the ground, clutching at his wrist. It was twisted so far out of place, it looked as though the thing had been lobbed off underneath the skin. Johnny glared darkly at the nurse before heading for the exit.

"Doctors are usually good people. I don't want to have to kill him. Or you. But if you get in my way, you may not get off as easy as your friend." Johnny kicked the doctor in the wrist, and he screamed as his hand flopped backwards. "What's it going to be?"

The nurse shrank back against the wall, and Johnny left the room without another word.


End file.
